


Closer to Heaven and Closer to You

by Epiphanyx7



Category: Supernatural
Genre: All of the Feelings, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Dean is a Good Brother, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forgiveness, Friendship, Friendship/Love, I Don't Even Know, Kissing, M/M, No Sex, Romance, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epiphanyx7/pseuds/Epiphanyx7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is an angel. And angels don't have emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer to Heaven and Closer to You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/gifts).



> Written as a gift for Sunspot -- Merry Christmas, you evil doom-wielding devil-woman.

 

From the first time he’d met the guy, Sam had noticed that Castiel has exactly one facial expression: blank.

And of course, that's the first thing that Sam notices, because the angel is damned hard to read. He's got this completely neutral expression, alien and strange, it's like no matter what they’re talking a bout or trying to say, he just doesn't fucking get it. After quite a few conversations with Dean, Sam finally understands that -- well, he's an angel. Castiel is an angel.

And angels don't have emotions.

-

It's kind of hard to feel bad for the guy, after that, because Sam doesn't fucking know how to empathize with someone who's got no feelings. He used to be good at that -- not all vampires are bad! Maybe the Rougaru won't eat human flesh! Maybe this Wendigo just wants to talk to us! But it's never like that, it's never been like that, and it’s getting harder and harder for Sam to think of anyone - anything - as human when they’re obviously fucking not. There’s us, and there’s them, Sam remembers Dean saying once and he’d been offended at the time, had been full of righteous anger and thought that people were people, being attacked by a werewolf - or a vampire - or whatever - didn’t change that.

But it’s been a long time since he was a kid, and Sam’s been fucked over so many times in the past that it's hard to see Castiel as anything other than another manipulative, opportunistic psycho freak that wants something from Dean and Sam. He’s not human. He’s a monster just like the rest of them.

Then, of course, Sam lets Lucifer out of his cage and doesn't have a leg to stand on anymore.

And Castiel helped him do it.

-

That’s when Sam notices that he was wrong, before; Cas doesn't just have one neutral expression. He's got two, actually, and neither are as much a perfectly expressionless visage as Sam had originally thought. He has his Serious face, which is, of course, Serious. That had been what Sam had thought was his only expression, right until Sam looks over when Dean’s talking to him, leaning against the Impala and draping his arm over Castiel's shoulders.

Cas looks extremely uncomfortable, more the way he’s holding himself than anything else, and then Dean reacts to something he said by bursting into laughter, and Cas -- changes.

Sam sees it, for the briefest flicker of time; Cas' entire face shifted, his mouth turned up at the corners, his eyes softened. And everything in Sam screams, no, no, but Cas is stand there looking at Dean and Dean was laughing, actually fucking smiling, something he hasn’t done much of since he got out of Hell.

Sam thinks, _what the fucking hell is going on here.  
_  
-

Later, turning over in his bed with his pillow over his face, Sam decides that it isn't a big deal. At all.

And then he promptly forgets about it.

-

That was a dumbshit move, apparently. When it happens next, of course, it means that Sam is entirely unprepared.

This time it’s at a diner, when Castiel had shown up, bringing Dean a slice of pie from the counter. Dean takes his first bite, grinning up at Cas and gesturing for the angel to take a seat, and Sam sees the whole thing again. His mouth lifts up from its near-permanent scowl, his eyes grow warm and almost friendly -- and for a moment, just a moment, Sam could have sworn that Cas was going to ruffle Dean's hair.

He doesn't, of course, but Sam stares at him while, pretending to eat his French fries while his mind works furiously. So, Castiel's face has more than one expression; that totally isn't a big deal, or anything.

Except it is a big deal, because it’s Cas. And angels don’t feel emotions. And -- there's something else, Sam can't quite put his finger on it, but it's something to do with the apocalypse and Dean and - whatever.

Sam glares down at his plate and finishes off his fries almost viciously, trying to pay attention and totally zoning out off the conversation that Dean and Cas are having. "You suck," Sam mutters to his French fries, and rolls his eyes and says he didn't say anything when Dean asks him to repeat himself.

-

He finds himself noticing, more and more often, the subtle hints that change when Cas is around Dean. Its little things at first, a slight turned-up tilt to his mouth, not really a smile but almost -- and then Sam starts noticing the rest.

He notices the way that Cas leans in, as if he's gravitating towards Dean and can't quite stop himself. It's fucking annoying, is what it is, and it's fucking irritating that Dean lets him, like that's -- whatever. It doesn't matter what it is, except for the part where Sam can't quite stop himself from staring. All the time.

And Dean is starting to notice.

"Yeah?" Dean says, raising his eyebrows when Sam stares at Cas a little too long to really be understandable, considering that Cas is just standing up to go talk to the guy behind the counter.

"Shut up," Sam says, automatic reflexes kicking in.

Dean tilts his head back, grinning. "Oh yeah, Sammy?" He says, and then he nods at Cas like Sam's the fucking mind reader and should be able to understand what he means by that alone. Sam glares at him and then Dean's smile goes from his normal thousand-watt grin to something rapidly approaching shit-eating intensity.

"You like that, do you, Sammy?" Dean smirks.

Sam is rendered speechless with incoherent rage. By the time he manages to get his voice back, he wants to yell _I was not staring at his ass, you fucktard, I was staring at his_ ** _face_** , but Sam stays silent because 1) Dean wouldn't believe him anyway and 2) Cas is sitting next to him and Dean is giving him knowing looks.

Sam fucking hates his brother, sometimes.

-

Dean doesn't bring it up again, which is totally fucking fine if completely unexpected.

Because Sam notices one other thing, about the many, varied facial expressions that Cas will occasionally get when he's talking to Dean, or looking at Dean, or being saved from doom by Dean.

When Castiel looks at Sam, he's got this blank fucking polite look on his face, like Sam's not - he doesn't even know what it is, about the way Cas' gets all polite and shit, except that it's not the same. It's not the same at all, and yeah, Sam totally gets that Cas yanked Dean out of Hell, thank god (literally) but for fuck's sake, that doesn't make Sam any less of a person.

And when it comes down to it, Sam's getting better at identifying all the different ways in which Castiel proves him wrong about angels having emotions, because when Castiel looks at Dean he's got everything written on his face, plain as day, clear as glass.

He looks at Dean and bam, right there, there's trust, and faith, and concern, and a bunch of fucking other shit like sadness and fear and - Sam doesn't know what's worse, the fact that Castiel's got every single emotion in the pot, or the fact that the angel is actually too much of a dumb shit to know what those feelings are. And to top it all off, to make things even fucking better, there's the icing on the cake -- that stupid turned-up mouth thingy that Castiel does, not often, not at all, but only once in a while when he's done something dumb and Dean's laughing his ass off.

Because that's a look Sam's familiar with, it's one he can feel in his own chest, aching and bright, every time he sees Dean laugh or smile, it's looking at his big brother and thinking _It's so good to hear you laugh.  
_  
It wouldn’t be bad to see it on Castiel's face, except that's the only time -- the ONLY time that Sam has ever seen any expression close to joy on the angel's face. That's as good as it gets, if you're an Angel of the Lord, it seems. You get all the tough shit, all the stress, all the drama, the loneliness and abandonment and doubt and fear - and the closest thing to enjoyment that Cas can feel is when he makes _Dean_ happy.

It’s not fucking fair.

Sam wants to fucking punch something.

-

The next time Sam and Cas are left alone, it’s pretty fucking difficult not to notice the way the angel pretty much shuts down as soon as Dean leaves the room. All that casualness, the forced relaxation in his shoulders disappears as if it had never existed, and then Sam’s standing in a motel room with a freaking Cyborg or some shit.

It’s entirely possible that he’d have been more comfortable with an actual robot.

“Come on, Cas,” Sam says, feigning normalcy and probably not all that well. “Sit down or something, will you, I want to watch cartoons and you’re freaking me out.”

This earns him a confused look, which is a nice change from the Serious Face. The Serious Face seems to be all Sam can get, so even Confused seems like a step up.

“Sit down,” Sam says, and when Castiel makes no move to obey, he stands up, unfolding himself from his own cheap motel-bed and taking the three steps he needs to reach Castiel.

Cas’ wrist is warm, surprisingly so, when Sam grabs him. He doesn’t resist Sam’s gentle pull, though, letting the other man lead him to the bed like a child. Sam turns him around and shoves his shoulders, repeating “Sit,” just in case Cas hadn’t gotten it.

Castiel sits.

“Good.” Sam says, and before he knows it he’s leaning forward, pulling the tie around Cas’ neck to loosen it. He takes it off, drapes it over the nightstand, and then drops back onto the bed next to Cas.

Unsurprisingly, Castiel looks about as relaxed as a marble statue - a marble statue of a terminator mid-fight, or something else ridiculous like that.

“Coat off,” Sam says, searching for the remote. He finds it next to his pillow. “Jacket too.”

He starts flipping channels, mindlessly, not even looking at what’s on the screen because he’s too busy trying to watch Cas out of the corner of his eye. It takes a long fucking time, Sam concentrating on looking like he’s concentrating on the channels he’s flipping through, but he manages to catch Castiel’s careful blinking in his eyesight.

“Dean enjoys that program,” Castiel says, the first sentence he’s managed to say since the two of them were left in the room together.

Sam pauses, trying to figure out whether or not Castiel is trying to be helpful or - but if he’s being serious, there are a whole lot of shitty shows that Dean watches, like Dr. Sexy MD (what the fuck was that shit) and he’d flipped through bunches of those without Cas saying anything.

He turns back, because it’s classic Bugs Bunny and hey, he had said he wanted to watch cartoons, so why the fuck not.

Sam’s just settled in, ready to rest his eyelids for a few seconds, when he catches movement to his left. He doesn’t turn, but he looks over at Castiel. The angel’s expression is solidly determined, which is a new one for any time they’re not fighting demons or heading off to fight Satan, and it stays that way for almost a few second before Castiel yanks on his trench coat, abruptly, like he’s not quite sure how to go about doing this.

Waiting with his breath half-held, Sam watches as Castiel struggles out of his trench coat. That done, Cas unbuttons his suit jacket and takes that off too, unceremoniously dropping both of them on the floor before he turns his eyes back to the television.

Sam’s probably not a great judge of facial expressions, but there’s something new on Castiel’s face this time around. He just doesn’t know what it is - not yet.

He can’t stop himself from smiling, but its okay. Cas isn’t look at him. Smiling, Sam turns back to the TV.

-

The one and only time Dean had managed to convince Castiel to defile his body with coffee, Cas had gotten that blank, politely disinterested expression on his face, and he’d (politely) spit the mouthful of coffee back into the mug and handed it right back to Dean. “No,” he’d said.

This, of course, leads Sam to believe that angels don’t like coffee.

Or more specifically, angels don’t like Dean’s coffee.

He might like something a little tastier, like a moccachino, or a cappuccino. It’s entirely possible that he might like a latte - there’s a place on the corner that makes an absolutely delicious Chai latte that would probably go over well.

Except -

Yeah Sam’s not really an expert on indulging in delicious, terribly-bad-for-you types of food. Even when he was little, he’d craved home cooked meals and someone who’d yell at him if he didn’t eat his veggies.

He’s fairly certain, though, that Castiel doesn’t eat or drink because he’s only been introduced to like, really gross stuff. Coffee is bitter, after all, and Dean puts in enough sugar to feed maybe half a bacterium if it was on a diet. And tequila? Sam has absolutely no idea what the fuck Ellen was thinking there.

They’re stopped at a gas station in Illinois when he finally figures it out, standing in front of the counter holding a Snickers bar and six bags of Doritos. “Uh,” Sam says, to the poor teenager working there. “How many different kinds of chocolate do you think you guys sell?”

Dean’s tapping the steering wheel impatiently, drumming some song that Sam doesn’t like and humming along. “Take long enough in there, Sam?” He says, not really pissed just being a jerk as per usual.

“Shut up,” Sam replies, because they’re brothers and his mouth knows how to talk back to Dean without his brain being online.

It takes him seven seconds to get settled, another two for Dean to get them back on the road and thirty more before they’re back on the highway.

“Hey Cas,” Sam says, unwrapping a candy bar and breaking off a small piece. “Try this, will you?”

Dean shoots him a horrified look, like Sam’s going to corrupt Cas’ delicate and fragile soul with the sinful goodness that is candy, but Sam is pretty fucking sure Dean’s just pissed he didn’t think of it first.

Castiel, on the other hand, switches from his Bored Face (it’s exactly like the Serious Face, except he’s not looking at anyone) to his Confused Face. “What is it?” He asks, almost suspiciously.

Sam hands him the small broken-off piece of chocolate and caramel, watching to make sure that Cas doesn’t cheat and drop it on the floor. Not only would Dean kill him for getting chocolate on the Impala, but also that would be a waste of candy and totally ruin the point of all of this. “Here,” he says, shoving the rest of the candy (still wrapped) into Castiel’s left hand.

Castiel has a funny look on his face, exactly like his Confused face but somewhat more… confused. Sam turns back around, sliding down in his seat and trying to find a comfortable position to get some shut-eye.

“The fuck are you doing?” Dean hisses at him.

“Taking a goddamn nap,” Sam snaps back, and then he thinks about what he just said. “Sorry, Cas,” He adds.

Cas makes a small noise, indecipherable, and Sam turns to look. Cas is staring at the candy in his hand, his eyebrows furrowed in what looks like extreme concentration.

“Hey - hey!” Dean hisses, eyes flickering between the road and his rear-view mirror. “Is he - Sam, Sammy, is he chewing?”

“Nope,” Sam says, turning back around and shrugging.

In the back, Castiel tilts his head to the side as he considers the writing on the wrapper.

-

Almost an hour later, Sam drifts out of his exhausted, sleep-deprived haze when he hears crinkling from the back seat. Dean jerks a little bit with surprise, not letting it affect his driving at all but still looking at Sammy with a _What Is Going On_ kind of face.

Sam looks back to see Castiel staring at the candy bar - still in his hand - with the kind of intensity normally reserved for exorcisms and reading the Bible. He carefully pulls the wrapper down on one side, then on the other, precisely as if any more or less than an inch would kill him. Finally satisfied with the appearance of the candy bar in his hand, Castiel holds it in his left hand, grabbing onto the exposed chocolate with his right.

Sam watches, rapt, as Castiel breaks off the tip of the bar and then shoves it in his mouth. His expression is no longer confused, but fiercely determined the way it had been when he’d taken off his coat to watch cartoons with Sam, and it’s almost endearing. Almost.

There’s a fun moment when Cas notices the smear of chocolate on his thumb and index finger, and Sam thinks that the angel is going to miracle it away like he would a bloodstain. Instead, Castiel takes a moment to contemplate the chocolate on his fingers, and then he raises his hand to his lips and pops them in his mouth.

His eyes catch Sam for a moment, and then it happens - his lips turn up at the corners, not really a smile but almost, lines appearing around his eyes and something almost like a dimple at Castiel’s cheek - and for a minute - a second - a heartbeat - Sam struggles to breathe.

-

The next time they stop for coffee, Sam buys Cas a hot chocolate. Dean rolls his eyes and makes a lot of unintelligible muttered commentary, but when Cas takes a sip and doesn’t spit it back out, Dean ends up smiling at Sam like he’s done something awesome. It’s pretty fucking weird, all things considered, that Sam can let Lucifer out of hell but buying Cas a drink makes him some kind of hero - clearly, Dean’s head isn’t on quite right.

-

It still feels pretty fucking good, though.

-

After that it stops being this weird thing. It doesn't really make sense, but Sam's willing to just roll with it. Considering all the fucked-up shit that he's gone through in his life, considering what a disturbingly dark place he'd been to - Dean fucking dying, going to hell, the whole mess with Ruby and his blood-drinking habit, not to mention how he'd gone fucked up homicidal and killed people on his way to release Lucifer from his prison -- this is probably about the smallest thing that Sam could ever possibly do. It won't even count as a good deed when it comes to the great cosmic order, he's corrupting an Angel for Christ's sake, but ---

It makes him feel better about himself, that he can give small moments of almost-happiness to someone who probably doesn't even know what happiness is. And Castiel, for all his age-old wisdom and his grim determination to save Dean No Matter The Cost, he’s still pretty much a fucking infant when it comes to little things like being happy.

And yeah, it's totally messed up on like a hundred different levels that Cas thinks happiness is whatever makes Dean happy. But Sam's going to show him different, he's going to let Cas be happy for himself. Just a little bit. Because the world is ending and it's their fault -

(all of them, not just Sam, because as much as he remembers that he broke the last seal he can still see Dean's face when Dean remembers that he broke the first. And Castiel, Cas was there for the whole fucking thing, beginning to end, and there's something like guilt in his stubborn attachment to Dean, as if they can all make this shit better together through the power of fucking love. They can't, because they aren't freaking Care Bears, but his faith is often reassuring)

\- and Sam has Dean, and Dean has Sam, and Cas' family - well, his family wants to kill him.

When it really comes down to it, a couple mouthfuls of chocolate aren’t going to do much.

But it does make Cas almost smile.

-

So Sam buys chocolate bars and shares them with Cas, whenever Cas hitches a ride in the Impala instead of using his angel-mojo to magic himself around the globe. He invites Cas to watch TV with him, sometimes switching channels and carefully looking at Cas’ face to get a feel for what kind of programming he enjoys watching. It starts getting obvious when he likes a TV show, because he gets comfortable and tilts his head to the side, leaning forward and putting on a wide-eyed, curious expression that seems dramatically different from his normal serious face.

Sam turns himself into an expert on Castiel’s expression, looking for every single upward twitch of his lips, every single half-millimetre dip in his eyebrows.

It’s weird, and Sam knows it’s weird that he’s paying this much attention to someone - well, someone who isn’t Dean. But this isn’t Sam’s entire life; it’s something he does during long, quiet moments when he wants to have the heavy, guilty ache in his chest lifted for just a few damn seconds. Sometimes he wants to remember what it was like to be normal, before he was part of some demon’s master plan, before his brother sold his soul to save Sam’s life, before Dean went to Hell and came back broken.

And none of that is possible, obviously, that shit ain’t going to happen unless Sam gets a couple of doctorates in theoretical astrophysics and engineering and learns to make a damned time machine.

And he doesn’t have that kind of time.

But something’s there, when Cas tilts his head to the side in that not-quite-curious way, and it happens more and more often the harder Sam tries. Cas has gorgeous eyes, soft and blue and deep as the ocean, the kind of eyes that soften all over when he’s looking at Dean, the kind of mouth that really invites Sam to look at it, the kind of expressive face that shows every single flicker of fear or doubt or joy he’s ever experienced. Castiel is - uncomplicated, in a complex and almost unfathomable way, the kind of simplicity that means Sam can step outside of his shit-tacular craptastic adventures and remember that once upon a time, he used to be a good guy.

Sam’s a little scared to admit to himself just how much he needs that.

“Hey,” he says, because Cas is staring away at nothing, sitting in the back seat of the Impala as proper as if he were sitting on a church pew. “You should take a nap or something, man,” and Dean rolls his eyes, making a disappointed noise that clearly conveys Angels Don’t Sleep, Sammy, but Sam tries his best to not pay attention to his older brother.

“I do not require rest,” Cas says gently, but his eyes soften a little bit, like he’s touched by Sam’s concern. Or something. Fuck. Sam’s probably projecting on to him, at this point, which is fucked up.

“Yeah,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “I figured as much,” and he runs his hands through his hair. He’s tired as hell, he can’t remember the last time he had a proper night’s sleep - Dean sleeps at night, but he has nightmares that keep Sam up whenever Sam’s not having nightmares of his own.

“As long as you kids don’t play I Spy, or another idiotic car game,” Dean says grimly, “I really don’t care.”

Behind him, Sam hears Castiel ask quietly enough that Sam and Dean can ignore him if they want to, “What is I Spy?”

Sam darts a quick glance in Dean’s direction, but his brother’s jaw is clenched in irritation and the shape of his lips shapes a resigned acceptance of his fate.

-

When it comes to annoying children’s car games, Castiel is freakily good. And by freakily good, Sam means that he cheats shamelessly because obviously, Angels can see shit that doesn’t necessarily fall underneath the spectrum of visible light. Or, you know, things that most humans would need a god damned electron microscope to see.

“Visible spectrum of light only,” Sam snaps after Castiel has ‘spied’ waves of infa-red heat rising from the tarmac and then the fucking radio waves, which Dean insists is ‘too cool’ to be disqualified, whatever the fuck that means.

And then of course, Castiel ‘spies’ a cricket in a nearby field, an infant in the backseat of a car two miles away from them, the atoms making up Sam’s shirt, and a squirrel in Central Park, at which point Sam throws up his hands in defeat and yells, “Only things that I can see too, fuck, what is wrong with you?”

That statement results in a three-minute stare-off with Cas, who probably hasn’t ever been in a staring contest before but would, hypothetically, win a staring contest against a marble statue. Because he could stare at it until the statue fucking faded to dust. And then he’d probably stare the dust into submission, too.

“Fine,” Sam says. “I spy, with my---“

“Cumulo Nimbus Cloud approximately sixteen degrees east.” Castiel says, monotone.

Sam glares at him. “No _mind reading_ ,” he hisses, because wow, who knew Angels would be so freaking good at cheating?

And then he spends almost an hour trying to figure out what the hell Castiel could possibly spy that was grey, of all things, until he had gone through his general list of twenty-questions and hadn’t made any leeway at all. He’s been gritting his teeth and just randomly asking shit for the past twenty minutes.

“Seriously,” Dean says, “Just give in, Sammy; he’s better at this game than you are.” Dean’s not laughing, but his face is suspiciously red and he keeps coughing into his sleeve, loudly, and wiping at the corners of his eyes.

“Is it Dean?” Sam asks, meanly.

Cas pauses, long enough that Sam clues in, and he immediately rephrases his question. “Does it have something to do with Dean?”

“Yes,” Cas replies hesitantly.

“Is Dean wearing it?” Sam asks, even though Dean is clearly wearing jeans and a blue t-shirt.

“Don’t drag me into this,” Dean says, but he doesn’t sound like his heart is in it.

“No,” Castiel says.

Sam sits up. “Is it on him?”

“Yes…”

“Holy shit,” Sam says, grinning, and if his grin is edging closer and closer to shit-eating instead of pleasant, that’s totally not his problem.

Dean glances at him, nervously, his brows creasing in concern. “What’s going on?” He asks.

“Dude,” Sam says, and he turns to look at Dean, scrutinizing him very carefully.

Dean continues to look nervous. “What?” he snaps, eyes flickering back and forth between Sam and the road. “What is it?”

“You’ve got a grey hair,” Sam says, finally spying it near Dean’s temple.

The car fucking swerves for half a second, because Dean actually turns and punches Sam in the gut, pissed off in a good-natured way. “Dude, not funny,” he says, but he’s also trying to check himself out in the rear-view at the same time. “I don’t have a fucking grey hair!” Dean snaps, when he sees Sam trying to hold back his laughter.

Castiel leans forward, brushing his knuckles over Dean’s temple, his fingertips pausing briefly when they encounter the troublemaking strand. “You have one right here,” he says solemnly.

Dean scowls at him in the mirror, clenching his jaw as he squeezes the steering wheel a little bit tighter and honest to god pouting. Which, shouldn’t be - no, that’s pretty much the definition of funny, which is why despite Sam’s best effort, the laughter he’s trying to hold in manages to escape. He sounds a little bit like a spastic donkey, though, which is even fucking funnier, and even though he claps a hand over his mouth a snort still escapes.

Dean cracks a smile, still not looking at him. “You sound like a jackass,” he says, fond.

Castiel’s fingers brush over Dean’s temple once more, and then he pulls his hand back. Sam, still laughing, looks at him, just long enough to recognize that expression on his face as guilty and self-indulgent.

“Did you just fucking angel-mojo Dean’s hair?” Sam demands, leaning closer to look at Dean’s hair. Dean smacks him on the shoulder, muttering something that was probably get away, Grabby Hands, and Sam isn’t about the press the point when Dean’s driving the car. “You mojo’d his hair, didn’t you?” Sam asks, tipping his head back so he can see the top of Castiel’s hair in the back seat.

The guilty silence speaks for itself.

And then Sam’s cracking up once more, laughing so hard his sides hurt, and Dean’s trying to keep a straight face but his traitorous mouth keeps twisting up, because it really kind of is fucking funny, and then Cas in the back seat makes a short, abbreviated noise like a hiccup. And then he makes it again, and Sam thinks that maybe Cas is laughing.

Sam turns back to look at Cas and when the angel meets his eyes, Cas smiles at him, not the miserable soft-faced half-smile he usually has but something brighter, smug and satisfied. This smile says _I Did Something Right_ and even though it’s only there for a heartbeat, Sam vows to himself that he’ll do whatever it takes to make Cas smile at him like that again.

-

Sam keeps thinking that it should be weirder than it is, but it’s probably just that Dean acts like whatever the fuck Sam does with Cas is normal. And somehow, in the Winchester-‘verse, whatever Dean thinks is normal somehow is normal, which is why it’s not until Cas is licking sticky-sweet syrup from his lips, his tongue bright and pink against his skin, that Sam realizes that this probably isn’t normal. He would think about that, but Cas looks weirdly eager, so Sam gathers up another forkful of his waffle, this time smearing a little whipped cream on there, too, and he holds it up for Cas.

And yeah, actually, somewhere along the line it stopped being about teaching Cas to be human and started being about Sam being the one to make him smile, because Cas doesn’t see anything odd in leaning forward and opening his mouth like a little baby bird, and Sam feeds him the bite of breakfast and tries to ignore the way the waitress is giving him Oh-Isn’t-That-Sweet looks and Dean just rolls his eyes and looks oddly resigned.

Cas licks his lips. Again.

Sam watches. Again.

There’s nothing wrong with that, after all.

So what if it’s a little weird?

-

Sam has a secret mission that he’s been trying to accomplish. It started with a cup of hot chocolate, but he’s been steadily decreasing the amount of hot chocolate at the same rate he’s been increasing the level of coffee, until Castiel has managed to gain some sort of an appreciation for the bitter-tasting beverage.

Sure, it’s half-chocolate at this point, but at least he’s caffeinated. There’s something inherently wrong about being forced to save the world without an ounce of caffeine, and Sam’s too good of a guy to let Cas suffer through that kind of thing.

The next step in the program is ice cream, in varying flavours later but in the beginning Sam just buys a coffee-flavoured tub, carefully timing things so that Dean’s off at the local bar, hustling pool and leaving Sam and Cas behind to “research” which usually involves no conversation whatsoever. This time, of course, Sam waits six seconds after Dean leaves the room, until he hears the low roar of the Impala’s engine.

As soon as he does, Sam pulls two spoons from his jacket pocket, tosses one towards Cas who catches it automatically.

“We’ve got to finish this before Dean gets back,” he says, seriously, because this is important. Dean can’t know.

Castiel nods, his Serious Business Face on firmly, and he clutches the spoon tightly in his left hand, digging out a small scoop and sighing softly when the ice cream hits his tongue. They do all of their research one-handed, looking things up on the laptop - or in books - but with the tub of ice cream on the middle of the table and both of them digging out huge spoonfuls as quickly as they can.

-

And all of his secret training and his carefully planned program of desensitization pays off when, finally, there’s a momentary lull in apocalyptic doom and Castiel is sitting next to Dean at a diner, across the booth from Sam. The pot of coffee is lying on Cas’ side, and Dean just automatically lifts his mug when he wants a refill. Cas, who would probably have kicked ass as a diner waitress had he been inclined along that particular career path, can refill his mug without looking at it or pausing the conversation, which is unnerving the first time, cool the second, and then ceases to be amazing.

And then Castiel manages to snag the third mug on the table, pour coffee into it - while talking about the relative merits of searching through ancient Mesopotamian folklore for mystical artefacts that may or may not be helpful in their quest to kill the devil - and dump about six spoonfuls of sugar into it without Dean noticing. The second Castiel raises the mug to his lips, though, when he actually takes a sip, Dean stops talking and turns to gape at him, jaw hanging open, eyes wide with something that was probably shock by Sam decided to choose was delirious giddy joy.

-

After that, Cas drinks coffee.

Dean usually pays for it.

-

Sam doesn’t know when things changed - he’s always been fucked up and he definitely hasn’t been right in the brain since Dean died, even if he did eventually come back from the dead. But knowing that his own mind is messed up is not the same thing as having actual reality shift to accommodate him, which is why he doesn’t remember how it happened.

It might have been just another lazy morning, one of those days when Dean’s bitching at him to get his ass in the car already, and Sam’s body is still sleep-heavy and languid, refusing to obey him except slowly. Dean’s leaning against the car, keys jangling in one hand and his coffee cup in the other. A surprising twist on this morning is Castiel, wearing his trench-coat and tie as always, but oddly clean-shaven and with his hair slightly more mussed than Sam’s used to seeing. He leans against the car right next to Dean, mimicking his posture, his free hand shoved into the pocket of his coat and his right hand clutching his coffee cup.

They’re a pretty awesome sight, lined up next to the Impala the way they are, Castiel’s every movement unintentionally following Dean’s. He sips from his cup the same time Dean does, he looks at the ground every time Dean does, his gaze shifts over to the motel door when Sam finally appears with his duffel bag and his own high-priced vanilla latte.

Dean breaks out into a smile, the kind that lights up his whole face, the kind of smile that Sam vaguely remembers from when he was little and he’d tied his shoes by himself for the very first time.

Cas, beside him, smiles as well. It’s not the same smile at all; this is an entirely new smile. It’s shy and sweet and a little bit insecure, a smile that has nothing to do with the expression on Dean’s face and everything to do with Cas. He’s smiling, and this smile is for Sam, and he’s smiling at him fondly. It’s probably the first time Sam can remember that Cas isn’t smiling for him; he’s smiling for himself, just because he wants to.

Sam stumbles and almost spills his coffee, but he can’t help the way he’s grinning like an idiot, and even though Dean’s bitching about how lazy he is, and how they should have been on the road six minutes ago, Cas is still smiling sweet and shy and Sam really couldn’t fucking care less about Dean’s anal-retentive scheduling issues.

“Whatever,” Sam yells at him, tossing his stuff in the back and hopping into the passenger seat. Dean rolls his eyes and makes comments about Sam’s ancestry, which Sam helpfully points out is the same ancestry as Dean’s, and then they bitch about each other for about twenty minutes without actually saying anything, it’s just the kind of good-natured bickering they do all the time because it’s easier than saying _I love you_. Cas sits in the back seat, sipping his coffee and smiling the whole time, like he’s discovered something new, and Sam can feel a soft warmth in his chest where there used to be nothing but a horrible, gnawing emptiness.

He’s happy. Dean is happy.

And more than that, Cas is happy.

-

Sam and Dean aren't about to go all sappy just because it's almost Christmas, even though it is possibly the last Christmas that they'll ever experience, what with the world ending and all. Regardless, it still seems like the kind of thing they should at least pay lip service to, which is how Sam ends up at the mall standing in the middle of a toy aisle, trying to decide between G.I. Joe action figures because Dean is still pretending to be a grown-up so he can't just come out and say which one he wants.

Castiel roams through the aisles so slowly that Sam had left him back in the pet section of the department store, the angel's eyes bright as his wide eyes contemplate at a tank of colourful fish. Sam wants to get him something for Christmas, but conversations about what he wants always end up deviating to the philosophical.

“What do you want for Christmas?” and the inevitable answer is either a dramatic re-telling of the many ways in which Christmas does not in fact celebrate the birth of Christ (Dean: “Shut up, Christmas is about Santa, okay guys? Stop it with the religion thing, and remember Santa.”) or, in a way that’s even worse, Cas being brutally honest.

“I want to find my father,” Castiel says, eyes wide and fucking earnest (he’s very earnest, all the time), and when Sam presses on for something else, Cas adds, “I want Lucifer put back in his prison, I want you to be out of danger, I want this battle to be over with.” Once, Sam catches him in a vulnerable moment, and Cas tells him, “I want to go home.”

Unfortunately, none of those things are currently for sale 40% off at any of the department stores Sam’s checked.

-

He stresses about it right up until its Christmas Eve, and then he forces himself to wrap it and toss it onto Dean’s bed, as the motel does not come complete with a Christmas tree. The pile on the bed has Dean’s usual newspaper-wrapped porn (Sam knows by now that Dean is always going to get him porn for Christmas, he has ever since the mortifying year when Sam had scrounged up the remnants of his dignity and flat-out asked, because he was fourteen and it was really important) and also some others. Some of them have clearly been wrapped by Dean because they’re held together and covered with gun tape and newspaper, and of course there’s even one that Sam wrapped for Dean. Besides those, there are three more, wrapped in what looks like Disney princess birthday wrapping paper and practically laminated with tape.

Once it’s on the pile, it’s there, and Dean glares at the pile of unopened presents and opens his mouth to be an idiot, so Sam interrupts him. “Why don’t we go out?” He asks.

Dean brightens. “Yeah, there’s got to be a party going on somewhere, right?”

Cas looks back and forth between the brothers, doing his silent mind-reading thing.

“Yeah,” Sam says, resigned. “There’s got to be a party,” because nothing says Christmas quite like pretending to enjoy eggnog and picking his brother’s drunken ass out of a gutter at three AM.

-

On the other hand, this town - Sam can’t remember the name of the town, but gosh the people here are nice. Very nice, probably nicer than in any other place in the world. He knows this, because the waitress was just so nice to him, and she even gave him beer, and when he tried to pay her she gave him his money back and told him that he’d already paid, and Sam gave her a hug because she was awesome.

Dean was having fun, leaning up against a bar flirting with a tall, dark-haired woman with long, loooong legs. Sam looks at her legs and deems them worthy of a Winchester’s attention, and then he finds his beer worthy of his own attention, and he proceeds to have a Very Good Time Indeed.

It isn’t until maybe one o’clock in the morning that Sam realizes - hey, he’s forgotten Cas, and that’s really mean of him. Castiel is his friend - and an angel. And, it’s also Christmas, which is totally relevant. So Sam sets out to search.

First, he checks his chair, only to discover that he’s sitting in it. Then, he carefully inspects the chair next to him, which holds a discarded trench coat in a suspiciously Cas-like colour. This, Sam decides, is going to be his First Clue.

There will be a second clue, obviously, and a third clue, and once he’s found all three clues, he’ll find Cas! Plan firmly in place, Sam weaves gently as he raises himself to his feet. He leans over to pick up Cas’ coat, and carefully does not fall over. It takes a lot of effort to straighten himself up again, though, because apparently Sam is really, really tall.

“Y’all right there darlin’?” the awesome waitress asks, coming up behind him with a smile and a supporting hand on his elbow.

“I’m doing great,” Sam smiles at her. “I’m just _great_. Did you see which way my friend went?” and she pats him on the shoulder and points him in the way of the bar.

Sam obviously gets distracted by the bar itself, because he’s thirsty all of a sudden. He buys beer somehow, tips the bartender extravagantly, and then he finds himself staring at Castiel’s coat and wondering why he has it.

Oh, right - Cas is somewhere in the bar, and it is Sam’s job to find him. He sets off again on his quest, not getting distracted at all except for when he tries to drink his beer and a girl in a red halter top takes this as an invitation to dance.

Three songs later, Sam stumbles back up to the bar with a desperate need to drink more beer, and also to find Cas.

“Hi,” He says, to the girl in front of him. She’s pretty, curvy and short in a way he usually doesn’t notice, but he does notice the sleek, elegant necktie she’s wearing around her neck. It’s too loose and it’s blue, precisely the colour of Jimmy Novak’s eyes.

“Hey,” She says. “I’m Nancy.”

“I’m Sam. Where did you get that tie?” Sam asks, leaning forward so that he can hear her reply.

Nancy giggles. “I got it from a guy,” She says. “He said I could have it.”

“He did?”

“'Tis the season, and all of that,” Nancy says, swishing her hips as she walks by. Sam watches her, and then he remembers that he’s supposed to be finding Cas. Who is apparently somewhere in the bar and losing items of his clothing to drunken women, which is alarming on several different levels.

Scanning the bar quickly, Sam manages to find a cluster of women around the far end, but he can’t see what they’re crowding around. He sincerely hopes that they aren’t taking advantage of his guardian angel, because that is so not cool. Just because Cas can hold his alcohol doesn’t mean that they aren’t being - opportunistic.

He scowls and heads towards the throng, politely excusing himself every time he bumps into someone. It takes a long time to make his way to the corner of the bar, but then he finds a rumpled-looking Cas with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair wild and a soft almost-smile on his lips as he tosses back shots to enthusiastic cheers.

“Cas!” Sam shouts, trying to be heard, and Castiel spins on the barstool and waves hello.

And then some girl - some girl that Sam has never even seen before - walks up to Cas and kisses him.

On the mouth.

In front of everyone.

And Sam is so busy being shocked and horrified and feeling horribly violated on the angel’s behalf that it takes a long time for him to realize that Castiel isn’t freaking out. Actually, Castiel just sort of - leans into it, opening his mouth and tipping her head back a little with his hand cupping her jaw line - and holy motherfucking Christ on a stick, Castiel is fucking _kissing her back._

With his mouth open.

There is, Sam can see, _tongue_.

Sam’s brain completely shorts out; does not compute, Castiel, kissing, _tongue_. He stares, because what the actual fuck is going on, and then he stares some more, because Cas kisses her like it’s fun, like it’s something he does, like it’s _kissing_ \- and his brain still can’t get over that, Cas and kissing in the same sentence.

They break apart and the girl says something, too quiet for Sam to hear, but he can see the way her cheeks dimple and her breasts jiggle as she laughs. Whatever it is that she says, Cas shakes his head in reply and lets her go, his hand dropping from her cheek and his other arm sliding from around her waist.

She doesn’t look too torn up about it, but when she walks right on by, Sam is still feeling very, very confused.

Castiel. Kissing.

It shouldn’t - it doesn’t make sense, except then another girl shows up and she launches herself directly into a lip-lock with his angel, and Sam is scowling and trying to fight his way free of the crowd without, you know, actually hurting anybody.

This kiss doesn’t last very long, the girl doesn’t even really talk to Cas, just grabs her drink when the bartender slaps it down beside them on the bar top, and then she saunters off like she had every right to go and kiss Castiel. Sam barely manages to stop himself from yelling at her to keep her slutty, trampy, angel-violating lips to herself. Instead, he stumbles up to the bar and yells something about tequila, because whatever the fuck is going on here it’s clearly not going to be solved by some weak-ass brew.

“Sam,” Cas says, sounding happy to see him.

He’s still formulating a witty reply when some other girl shows up to drape herself on Cas’ lap and lay a sloppy kiss on him. Sam can forgive this one, though, because she gives Cas a quick hug and the kiss lands mostly on his cheek, and she doesn’t do that wandering-hands thing that the others did. “Cas,” turns out to be as good as Sam can do in the witty reply category, and then he manages to spit out “What the hell?” which he thinks sums up the situation pretty damn well.

“Hello, Samuel,” Cas says, which doesn’t explain anything. “Dean told me to wait for you, here,” Cas says, earnestly.

If Sam was capable of saying anything, he probably would have forgotten what it was because a tall, lean blond shoves in between them, signaling the barkeep with that way that really good looking people have.

“Hey,” the blond says, turning to Cas and smiling a little bit. “How’s your night going?”

“I’m well,” Castiel says, his expression politely surprised.

“Cool,” The blond says. He looks like one of those annoying Abercrombie and Fitch models, the ones who like to stand outside the stores and make Sam feel inadequate because he doesn’t like their shitty clothes. “I’m Kevin,” blond guy says, and Sam wants to punch him in the throat.

That, of course, is a fairly unusual reaction. Sam contemplates this as he licks his wrist, and then he contemplates some more as he sprinkles salt on the damp skin. It’s entirely possible that he’s getting a creeper-vibe from Kevin, Sam thinks, as he licks the salt. It’s also possible that Kevin’s a totally normal dude, who steps up to the bar and starts chatting with the guy next to him as he waits for his drink, Sam decides as he tosses back the first shot of tequila. He sucks on the lemon and decides that the only guys who talk to other guys instead of trying to hit on the nearest girl are the gay ones, so he turns to warn Cas only to find the two of them lip-locked.

There is, once more, tongue.

Sam can’t fucking deal so he spills more salt over his wrist and licks it away, tossing back the second of his shots of tequila and quickly biting into the lemon to hide the taste. He’s sputtering, but at least Kevin is apparently finished kissing Cas, because he grabs his drink - a pink, fruity-looking thing with a cherry garnish that actually looks kind of good - and wanders off.

“Has that been happening all night?” Sam yells, because that kind of volume is necessary to be heard.

“Since Dean left me,” Cas replies, somehow using his angel-mojo so he doesn’t have to do anything as undignified as shouting, but the sound somehow makes it to Sam’s ears clear as a bell. “I am surprised that it took you this long to find me, Sam,” and he looks almost disapproving.

A girl shows up to buy a drink and Sam steps closer to Cas, putting on hand on his shoulder in an attempt to protect him from the bar-floozies that all want to attach themselves to his mouth. Not that Sam can blame them, but still.

“You don’t think it’s weird?” Sam asks, able to talk sort of normally now that he’s practically pressed up against the angel.

“No,” Castiel says, tilting his head upward so that he can look at Sam. After a moment he also tilts his head to the side. “It is to be expected,” he said.

And yes, Castiel _does_ have extremely full, soft-looking lips, and possibly the bluest eyes in existence, but this sort of thing doesn’t actually happen every time he goes out in public. It doesn’t make it _okay_ for total strangers to - to kiss him, because he’s - but this is where Sam’s brain refuses to supply logic because there’s this tiny voice in his head saying _shut up and stop being so jealous_.

Because he is jealous.

And as much as Sam wants to be in total denial as to the reason for his jealousy, the truth of the matter is that - well, he’s not jealous because strange women are draping themselves in a lap not belonging to himself. He’s jealous because it’s Cas they’re touching, he’s jealous because it’s Cas they’re kissing.

Castiel looks at him as if he understands all of this, and Sam sometimes hates the stupid mind-reading mojo shit that the angel has going on, but now it means that he doesn’t have to explain himself out loud. Cas knows.

“It’s -” Sam says. “It’s not -”

“I’m sitting underneath the mistletoe,” Castiel says, and Sam realizes belatedly that there is a fairly sizable bundle of mistletoe deliberately tied over the bar-stool that Castiel is perched on.

“Hey,” Sam says, relieved for no reason that he can name. “That’s - that’s not fair,” and he knows that someone else, someone other than Cas, would make a comment about how Sam had once been sixteen years old and he’s stood in the doorway all evening, collecting enthusiastic kisses from every single girl in attendance at Stephanie Bruin’s Christmas party.

But this isn’t someone else, this is Cas, and so Castiel smiles at him. It’s an honest-to-goodness smile, teeth and dimples and that thing he does where his eyes seem to get wide and deep enough to drown in, and then Cas leans closer, his fingers resting lightly over Sam’s heart with their warmth somehow invading Sam’s skin and his soul. “Sam,” Castiel says. “Dean told me to wait here, for you.”

And while Sam stands there trying to assimilate that, Castiel’s hand slides up his chest and up to his neck, and then Castiel is sliding from his seat as graceful as some graceful thing - a gazelle, a dancer, an angel - and he pulls Sam closer, until they’re sharing breath, even though Sam’s is caught in his throat.

Castiel kisses him gently, sweetly, a soft brush of lips against lips and his tongue tracing the shape of Sam’s mouth, fingers firm at the back of Sam’s neck. It’s overwhelming because it’s new and exciting and Sam’s nowhere near drunk enough to not understand the fucking monumental epicness of the fucking situation, because it’s Cas, and he’s kissing Sam, and somehow this is everything that Sam didn’t know he wanted. He grabs Cas’ shirt, big handfuls of fabric and drags him closer, opening his mouth, leaning into the kiss because, wow. Wow.

He hadn’t known, which isn’t an excuse, but then Cas breaks the kiss and makes that soft, hiccuping sound again, and when Sam blinks the vision back into his eyes and looks up at him, he realizes that Cas is laughing softly.

-

Christmas morning they open their presents.

Dean got Cas a leather jacket, which isn’t beat up at all but looks almost classy, the kind of leather jacket that holy tax accountants should wear. He bought Sam the expected porn and a DVD of the latest star trek movie, which is an unexpected bonus. Dean gets both of the G.I. Joe action figures which for anyone else would be a lame gift, but Sam threw in some upgrades for his cell phone and Dean has the action figures battling to the death before Cas is finished unwrapping his own gift.

Cas doesn’t seem to know how to respond, because it’s a shoulder holster and a gun, but Sam shrugs and says “You’re family, you ought to be safe, you know?” and Cas nods, a slow smile spreading over his face, like he actually does understand.

Dean’s gift from Castiel is a Bible, which for a minute Sam thinks is the dumbest thing ever, but Dean runs his hand over the soft leather binding and doesn’t act pissed or anything, and he puts it in his duffel afterward. That probably means something, but Sam doesn’t know what, because he’s too busy looking at the gift that Castiel got him.

He doesn’t even look at the book at first, because when he opens the book two pictures fall out and land in his lap. Dean immediately goes quiet, the G.I. Joes pausing their battle for world dominance while he quietly walks over to Sam and looks at the photographs.

The first one is their family, right out of the hospital, John looking cheerful and optimistic as he holds a newborn Sam; Mary cuddles Dean as she holds him over one hip. They look happy and content and nothing at all like the family Sam knows they’re going to become, and that shouldn’t be a comfort but it is. The next picture is Sam and his mother, and he wants to clutch it close to his chest and cry a little bit - he’s never seen a picture of just him and his mom. She was only a live for such a short period of his life, and most of their things were destroyed in the fire that killed her.

This is probably the most precious thing in the world, priceless to him and worthless to anyone else, and Castiel’s face is nervous when Sam holds the photos and doesn’t say anything.

The book is called Happily Never After, and it is by Carver Edlund, which is bullshit and probably something Sam should read right away, but this - he holds onto the photos tightly until his vision blurs and he can feel them creasing in his hands.

Dean pats him on the shoulder, pulls the photos from Sam’s suddenly slack grip, putting them very carefully into the book. Sam blinks furiously, hating his vision for going blurry on him, and he doesn’t get it - he doesn’t know why Dean won’t look him in the eye or why Castiel is all weirdly silent until a tear drops from his eye, rolling hot and wet down his cheek and dripping down onto his shirt collar.

“Thank you,” Sam says to Cas. His voice is hoarse and raw, but it sounds grateful and not angry, and that’s what is important. “Thank you, Cas - this is - thank you,”

And Cas’ eyes are large and dark and worried, this time looking at Sam.

It’s the same expression he has when he looks at Dean, when he’s thinking about the end of the world, and Sam blinks more tears away from his eyes as he realizes that he - he and Dean - are the most precious things in Castiel’s life.

But Sam can’t help but feel weirdly happy about it. Jesus, he thinks, I’m fucking selfish, I’m a terrible person - but it’s still registering as a good thing, that Cas thinks Sam is worth all of this crap, worth turning his back on heaven, worth being labeled a traitor, worth being hunted by both sides.

Because - well. Because Sam wants to be everything to Cas. He just isn’t sure what that means.

Instead of figuring it out, he cups Castiel’s head in his hand and brushes a soft, chaste kiss over his lips.

He can feel Cas’ lips curve upwards into a smile.

-

“Oh, wow,” Dean says, stretching. “Gosh, I sure am feeling… restless? Sure, let’s go with that. I’m restless, so I’m going to go somewhere, by myself, and do something for a couple of hours, and why don’t you two stay here?” He stands up, smiling brightly at Sam and then at Cas. “I’ll be back in… several hours. As a matter of fact, I might not come back until tomorrow. Just so you guys know. I’m just saying.”

“I get it, Dean,” Sam snaps, managing to go from horribly embarrassed (seriously, Dean’s idea of subtlety could use a brick or two to enhance the finer aspects) and then nervous (because like - what exactly does Dean expect him to do alone in a motel room with an angel?) to irritated (because Dean is still there.)

“Indeed,” Castiel says. “I believe that there is a pool hall across the street that you will enjoy.” He doesn’t say anything else, though, and Dean grins at him as he rummages around ‘looking for his wallet’.

“Thanks, Cas. That sure is nice of you,” Dean says, pretending to accidentally find a box of condoms (unopened) in his duffel bag and leaving them on the side table. “I’m sure I will have a lot of fun playing pool,” He adds, ostentatiously dropping a bottle of lube onto the side table.

“Your wallet is in your pocket!” Sam yells. “Just go already,”

“Sure thing, Sammy!” Dean chirps, happily making his way to the door. “Just remember, I’ll be gone for-”

“For several hours,” Sam says. “I got it. Tell you what, why don’t you call? To let us know when you’re going to be returning?”

“I could do that,” Dean says cheerfully, and then he saunters out of the room with his jacket thrown casually over one shoulder.

-

It isn’t even like that though, because Sam is not an asshole and he’s fairly certain that Castiel is the girl in this relationship anyway, which as everyone knows means that Cas gets to call the shots. Like what exactly they do alone in a motel room when Dean says he’s going to be gone all night, and will most likely make sure that he isn’t even around for breakfast the next day.

What this means, of course, is that Cas ends up sprawled over Sam’s bed, on his stomach with his jacket and coat tossed over the back of a chair as he eats popcorn and candy and lets Sam wrap an arm around his waist and rest his head on the back of Cas’ shoulder blade.

It’s surprisingly comfortable, it feels good in a way that Sam isn’t quite sure he’s allowed to feel. It’s not normal, because Sam’s never really liked guys - like that - and Cas is an angel, besides, but it feels right. Like he should have known all along that he needed an angel in his life, and Cas likes to look up at Sam, and even though his gaze lasts only a few seconds his eyes are always an earth-shattering blue and his eyelashes sweep against his cheek, Sam can feel them fluttering against his skin when he leans in to kiss Castiel’s mouth.

And so he does, he kisses Castiel, allows himself to enjoy it, just kissing, his lips on top of Castiel’s and Castiel’s hand resting lightly on the back of Sam’s neck. It’s intense the way kissing never really was before; it feels amazing and soft and beautiful, actually beautiful. Sam can’t forget that the world is ending outside of their hotel room, he doesn’t forget that his brother is shattered and broken and will likely never be the same, never be the Dean Sam remembers, because that strong and brave and independent brother had never really existed.

But it makes it better, makes it into something sweeter and more meaningful that he’d ever imagined, and so Sam kisses his angel again, and again. Castiel smiles against Sam’s mouth and kisses him back.

It’s easy to lose himself in it, in this, the slow slide of lips against lips and teeth and tongue, get lost in the slick motions and open his mouth and breathe Castiel’s air, drunk on the smell of the angel’s skin, intoxicated with the buttery, chocolate-y taste of him and the overwhelming thrum of barely-restrained power every time he touches him. Its - its Castiel, and Sam can’t think past that, doesn’t even want to.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, breaking the kiss to lay his head down on the bed. He trails his hand up the length of Sam’s arm to his shoulder, his neck, his ear, and then he drags it back. The sensation makes Sam shiver, but he holds still, his arm on his side and barely touching Castiel’s waist, even though they’re pressed chest-to-chest and lying facing each other, the TV in the background making meaningless noise.

“For what?” Sam asks.

“For this,” Cas says, and he leans in and brushes a soft kiss against Sam’s jaw, right next to his ear. “Thank you - I had not known, Samuel, how dearly I needed this - needed you,”

“Oh,” Sam says, feeling dumb, but his fingers clench in the fabric of Castiel’s shirt, dragging him closer.

“Thank you,” Castiel whispers, placing another kiss next to the previous one, making a slow trail along Sam’s stubbled jaw. “For everything, Sam.”

“Thank you,” Sam says, because Cas has saved Dean once - and again, over and over, he’s been there for his brother, he’s done - so much, and it feels as if the tears are going to well up again, going to overwhelm him. It’s like a choking, drowning feeling, too strong and too intense, and it helps (and makes things worse,) when Castiel spreads his hand, palm pressed against Sam’s chest, his fingers fanning out over his heart.

“For though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal,” Castiel whispers, his lips brushing Sam’s skin as he says the words. “And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have faith, so that I could move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.”

The words are familiar, although Sam can’t blame them, but it’s Castiel saying it, the way his mouth forms the words and Sam can feel it - feel the tension in his muscles, the way his entire body is straining towards Sam, the way his voice wavers and his breath stutters as he speak, that’s what gets him. Sam’s breath hitches in his chest; he can feel his heart speed up, pounding beneath Castiel’s fingers.

“And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.” Castiel finishes, blue eyes beseeching Sam to understand what he’s trying to say.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and he pulls Castiel closer even though they really can’t be any closer. He buries his head in Castiel’s shoulder, rubs his hands in long, rough strokes over the planes of Castiel’s back, tries to remember what he needs to say, to put it into words.

Castiel pulls away far enough to kiss Sam again, a little more hesitant, a little less chaste.

“Yes,” Sam says when they come back up for air. “It’s - Cas, it’s -”

But he can’t remember the words, so he ends up saying some cheesy line from a movie he half-remembers, the words spilling from his lips before he has a chance to think about them. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn,” Sam says, smiling against Cas’ mouth. “Is to love - and be loved in return,” and Cas nods very, very slowly, before leaning in to kiss Sam once more, open-mouthed and dirty.

-

End.

-

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the song 'Cowboy Take Me Away' by the Dixie Chicks; Castiel’s speech is from the Bible (I Corinthians 13, but not any particular translation). “The Greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return” is a lyric from the song “nature Boy” written by Eden Ahbez and performed by Nat King Cole, it is also quoted in the movie Moulin Rouge. This is the longest fucking story I've ever written and actually completed, although I have WIPs longer than this and have written chaptered stories longer. But. Uh. Yeah.


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